Monday, March 22, 2010

Wherein there is some degree of the ridiculous

"How does it look?" Dean asks.

I look at the back of his oversized Barbour jacket. It looks, well, no different to how it normally looks.

"You can't see it?"

I shake my head.

For, it remains, I cannot see the outline of the box of chocolates which Dean has partially stuffed down the back of his trousers.

I am going to repear this - I cannot see the box of chocolates which Dean has stuffed down the back of his trousers.

I would say that the reasons for there being chocolates in this position are complex and many but that would be a lie. The reasoning is basically - we popped into Tesco for pastries and orange juice on our way to the venue I once upon a time referred to on here as New Theatre. The offending chocolates were on special offer and Dean promptly bought them. New Theatre, where I used to work and where Dean still works, however, has a no food in the auditorium policy. On a technicality it has a no-outside -food-anywhere-in-the-building policy but, as long as you don't bring in a McDonalds or a Sunday Lunch or the best fried chicken that South London can offer then sandwiches in tupperware are quietly ignored. But taking a large box of chocolates into the auditorium, well...

So, yes, they're down the back of Dean's trousers. Master criminals, us.

Only, it is far, far too tempting.

"But what if someone does this -"

I swing my arm to make contact with Dean's back in the middle of the box of chocolates. He moves with the speed which would normally be reserved for retreats from polyester clothing.

"Don't you dare".

I laugh, the thought of splatter chocolate only just being beaten by the thought of eaten chocolate.

We soon discover, however that there is a problem with a box of chocolates being put down the back of your trousers - namely that they restrict your walking somewhat. By the time we've reached the foyer of New Theatre, over sized coat or no over sized coat, Dean's walk has become what can only be described as odd.

"Talk about having a pole stuck up your arse".

I look at him and the full ridiculous-ness of the situation hits me full on in the face. We're in the foyer of the one of - if not the most - beautiful theatres in London, having our dress rehearsal tickets upgraded and meanwhile we're smuggling half-price chocolates down Dean's trousers.

We both laugh.

"You know - I'm blogging this".